THOU soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream, The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain, Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain: The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. Here youth shall be famed for their love and their truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallowed the turf is that pillowed his head. Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow! Be the swans on thy borders still whiter than snow! Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread! And the turf ever hallowed which pillowed his head.
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